


Cautiously Optimistic

by OnaDacora



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Scotland Safehouse, set in that magical space in 160
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnaDacora/pseuds/OnaDacora
Summary: Jon and Martin finally have space to explore how they feel about each other, and just how badly they're doing after reaching the safehouse in Scotland. At least there's cows.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 31
Kudos: 176





	1. September 27, 2018

**Author's Note:**

> So I binged Magnus Archives in less than a week and now I have a lot of feelings please enjoy them.

It is only a few weeks --less than a month-- until the end of the world.

Not that he knows that.

Instead, Jon is acutely aware that this moment he finds himself in is the first time that he and Martin have had idle since, well, _everything_. The chaos of the Archive, being spirited away off to Scotland to one of Daisy’s safehouses, the itch of busying themselves with unpacking their belongings in a cottage with barely any furniture, and then the time Jon spent picking over every square inch while Martin went down to the village to get food and check in with Basira.

He was happy-- well, perhaps not happy. Suspicious? Cautiously optimistic? Well, he had found _nothing_. No bugs, no spiderwebs aside from some dusty cobwebs he cleaned out for good measure, no loose floorboards with secrets squirreled away inside, no odd smells, no mysterious stains… Nothing to suggest that there was anything hiding here in wait for them. No signs of trouble.

No, just the slowly dawning realization that after all the running it had taken to get here, they are, for the moment, safe. Together. Alone, with no pressing emergency to barge in and interrupt them.

Martin is talking about cows.

“--adorable. A whole herd of them on the side of the road,” Martin is saying, one corner of his mouth quirked up in a weak, fleeting sort of smile. Like his face is having trouble remembering how to do it. (He’d smiled, in the Lonely. _I see you._ But that was a desperate thing, a deep breath after being on the cusp of drowning.) When is the last time he’s really seen Martin smile?

God, he’d missed him.

_“I really loved you, you know?”_

He’d known. He’d… figured it out.

But does he still--

He stops himself. Forces himself not to _wonder_ too hard. He wants to find out for himself, and Knowing... The Knowing would just make that gnawing in the back of his mind that much worse, that hollow feeling he can only compare to hunger. He doesn’t have any statements, there’s only the village.

He _can’t_.

“Jon?”

Jon makes a quiet sound, catching himself, his focus snapping back as he rubs his forehead and adjusts his glasses. “Hm?”

Martin looks at him, that corner of his mouth twitching again. “Were you even listening?”

“I-- _Yes_. Cows. Adorable cows,” he states firmly, clearing his throat.

Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, studying him, Martin lets out a soft sigh. Disappointment. “I wish it could just appreciate a nice story about cows, you know?”

“Not spooky enough, I’m afraid.”

“You’d think maybe it might want something _different_ once in a while. Change things up?”

“Even with a pleasant story, I wouldn’t want to-- You’d be stuck, forever, every night, the same dream--”

Martin laughs. It’s bitter. “I’m sure it would be better than the nightmares I’m having now.”

Silence falls between them, uncomfortable. Jon looks away.

“You should come see them,” Martin says.

Jon’s eyes dart back to his, brow pinching together. “Your nightmares?”

“No, the _cows_.” That weak half-smile is back. A little wobbly, perhaps, but finding its footing.

“Oh! Right, of course. I--” His mind reaches for an excuse, a reason to stay inside and hide, a gut reaction before he can even consider. But that smile threatens to buckle. “Yes. You’re right.”

“A-are you sure? Jon, if you don’t feel up for it--”

“I want to see them,” he insists, and then, to cement the point, he takes a chance and reaches out and rests his hand on Martin’s arm. Right on his forearm-- Martin was fiddling with a seam on his jacket, and he stills at the contact. “How far are they?”

A smile. A _real_ smile. Jon is smiling back, he can’t help it. He doesn’t want to. (He’s allowed this, this moment, here, with Martin, with _cows_.) “Not far,” Martin says, in a tone that’s clearly meant to be reassuring. Eager to please, as if he was the one that has anything to make up for.

It feels wrong. As though just accepting this nice thing Martin wants to do for him is some kind of _favor_. He supposes it says something about all the times he’d rebuffed Martin’s offerings in the past.

He should do something nice for Martin. Something _actually_ nice. Especially because he doesn’t say a word when Jon slips the tape recorder into his bag before they go. Just in case. He just takes his scarred hand and gives it a tight, firm squeeze, as if to remind himself that they’re both really there.

\---

The cows are just as promised. Jon is glad that he went, not only because Scottish Highland cattle are fluffy, fantastic creatures, but because afterwards it seems like some of the tension has leaked out of Martin. Not very much, but enough, and Jon can tell it’s because Martin was watching him. Checking on him. Seeking the answer to some sort of question. Whatever it was, it must have been good enough.

 _Jon_ must be good enough.

He offers to help with dinner but Martin just tells him to rest, as if they _both_ didn’t look as though they hadn’t slept for at least a week. Jon tries to protest but Martin makes an offhand comment about only being able to meet _so many_ of his dietary requirements with the Archives locked down by the police. Chastened, he accepts Martin’s suggestion to take it easy for now. The least he can do is to do as he’s told, and not give him any more reason to worry.

Jon is the one to suggest sleeping in the same bed. The cottage has two bedrooms upstairs, but... He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want Martin to be alone. Not right now.

It takes Martin a moment to find his voice, but he agrees. 

When they agree that it’s time for bed, they go together, but leave a sliver of space between them. An unsure space full of unanswered questions. Neither of them acknowledge it as they close their eyes.

It's quiet. But not silent. It's dark. But not too dark. They’re exhausted. But they can't sleep.

After an uncertain amount of time, Martin murmurs out into the dark. "Thank you, for bringing me back."

Jon rolls onto his side, facing Martin. He can make out the shape of his face turned towards him, a shadowy blur without his glasses. "I couldn't leave you, Martin. I told you I wanted to get out together. I meant it."

"I-I know. I'm sorry. That-- that day, I couldn't--"

"It's alright, you needed to--"

"I love you, Jon." The words leave him in a rush.

He is silent. He doubts, even though he doesn’t want to. "You don't have to… I'm not…” Jon pauses, does his best to collect the words he needs to say. They hurt, leaving him. “Whoever you fell in love with, I don't know if I'm still him. You don't need to stand by what you said in the Lonely for my sake. You'd used the past tense, I didn't assume..."

"... _God_ , you are such a thick idiot!” he exclaims, with a fervor --almost _anger_ \-- that startles Jon. “ _I love you!_ Finding out you'd woken up-- I'd been ready to die! I took that job for Peter Lukas because I thought, maybe, it would be a noble way to die, but then you were alive and I had a-a _reason_ to… I don't know if I would have managed to trick him if it weren't for you. Knowing that I could _protect_ you from him."

He doesn't know what to say. It’s quite a lot, all at once, things he’s suspected or known on a factual level --that Martin cares for him-- but hadn’t _felt_ , not like _this_. It's not until he tries to breathe that he realizes his throat is thick with tears.

"Oh, Jon," Martin says, because he can hear it, the wet sound.

It’s here, in the tiny bit of peace in the cottage, in this bedroom --this _bed_ \-- they’d chosen to share, the dam finally breaks. "I hated not being able to help you. I was scared. If it weren't for me--"

"Don't. Please don't."

"I would kill him again, for you. To save you.” It’s a ragged pause, a shaky inhalation and a tired, bitter laugh. “Does that make me more monstrous?"

"I love you." He says again. Soft. Martin brushes his arm, gently, as though he might break, the first bridging of the gap between them and it isn’t enough. Suddenly Jon needs so much more.

With a pathetic sound that might have embarrassed him if he’d had enough dignity left to care, Jon takes hold of Martin’s shoulder and drags himself closer, into an embrace that was there, waiting for him. Jon clings to him, burying his face into Martin's neck. "Don't you dare," he manages to choke out. "Not again. Together, next time."

He laughs. It’s a little wet now, too. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather there not _be_ a next time."

" _Martin_." Petulant. Muffled in the lack of space between them.

"I promise. Together."

"I can't lose you. Not again." He holds tighter. "Martin, I--"

Jon pulls his head back, opening bleary eyes to try and see him through the dark, and their noses brush against one another. A soft graze, damp with tears, and Jon, for a moment, wonders if Martin is just as much a mess as he is. Weeks worth of _everything_ just coming down around his ears all at once, wrenching it all out of him like plucked bones.

"I want to kiss you so badly," Martin breathes, in a tone that suggests he might not even realize he's said it out loud.

"Then do it." Jon isn’t sure if it comes out as a demand, or a challenge, or a plea. All of those. None. Maybe it’s just as simple as _permission_. 

He does. It's rough and needy, and Jon reciprocates in kind. Every ounce of fear he'd felt for Martin, all the pain of rejection, all the loneliness he'd borne when everyone had pushed him away the moment he'd come out of that damned coma more of a monster than he’d been when he fell into it. It had felt like just desserts for how he'd behaved, but it all comes out in this desperate, longing kiss.

It had hurt, more than he thought it would, when even _Martin_ \--who had never doubted him!-- had pushed him away. Trusting that he was doing the right thing, that it had all been part of a plan, had been half honest trust on Jon’s part and half… desperation. He’d needed to believe that what was happening wasn’t _real_.

This is real. 

Martin is the first to break away, and for a moment Jon thinks that he’s laughing. But he’s crying. He’s shaking and he’s crying, and when Jon reaches up to cup his face and ask him if he’s alright, Martin takes his hand and kisses his palm.

“I-I’m fine. I just feel so terrible,” Martin says, another laughing sob bubbling to the surface, “for feeling so _happy_. There’s so many reasons not to be happy.”

“Be happy,” Jon says. His palm is against Martin’s cheek now, smudging tears. “Right now, nothing else matters. Pretend, if you have to. Just… Be happy.”

He laughs, pressing his forehead against Jon’s. “ _You_ make me happy, Jon. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted… _this_.”

“Well, I have _some_ idea.” He somehow manages to sound a little smug. He’s never _too_ far from smug, so it isn’t much of a journey.

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“Hm.”

“Are you happy?”

“I…” There’s a beat of silence as he considers this. “Yes. Right now, I really am.” The realization surprises him, just a little.

Martin chuckles, then sighs, fond. They lay there in silence for a moment, wrapped in each other, foreheads pressed against one another in the dark. Then Martin angles his head slightly, noses brushing, bringing their mouths in line for a kiss. Then he stops.

“Is-- is this okay?” Martin asks.

Jon answers the question with a brief, gentle kiss, first to his lips and then to his cheek. Melting against him, Martin presses into them like a cat. He’d be like putty in Jon’s hands, if that’s what he wanted.

“Get some sleep,” he says, tucking his nose beneath Martin’s jaw. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”

Martin gathers him closer, as if to physically make sure of it, and eventually sleep finds them both.


	2. September 28, 2018

Martin’s presence doesn’t keep the nightmares away, but it makes the waking a little easier. He’d rolled over at some point in the night, and now Martin is pressed tight against his back, one arm holding him close and the other pillowed under Jon’s head. 

Stretching the one leg that isn’t currently held hostage between Martin’s knees, Jon is unsurprised at the number of aches that have settled through his body. Between the questionable mattress and the lack of time to recover until now, it seems that everything is not only catching up to his mind, but his body as well.

He bites back a groan as he stretches his calf.

A soft, sleepy sigh into his hair is all the warning Jon gets before Martin’s grip on him tightens and he pulls him closer. Jon grunts, then breathes out a laugh, wedging his fingers between the ones Martin has balled up over his heart.

“Martin,” he says, trying to pull his other leg free.

A failed attempt-- Martin clamps down and buries his face into the nape of Jon’s neck, sending a pleasant thrum down the length of his spine. “Stay,” he says.

For a moment he lets himself enjoy it. Being held. Wanted. _Together_. Not alone anymore. (Not ever again.)

“Martin,” he repeats, a little firmer this time. The warm, fuzzy haze of waking up to Martin wrapped around him as though he could protect him has started to wear off, replaced with a slightly smothered feeling. _Too much, too close._

“Hm?” There’s a warm rush of breath on the back of Jon’s neck --not unpleasant, but less pleasant than a moment ago-- and with a startled noise from Martin, all the weight of him is gone. “O-oh, Jon, I’m sorry--!”

“It’s fine,” Jon says, fumbling for his glasses before rolling onto his back to look at Martin. “I just needed some space. To stretch.”

Martin’s hair is tousled from sleep, and there are dark circles under his eyes --no worse, he’s certain, than his own-- and the look on his face is one of doubt. “Right. If… Okay.”

“I feel sore,” Jon says, by means of explanation, flexing his toes beneath the blankets.

“Yeah… me too.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Fine, I think,” Martin says, pushing himself up on one elbow, facing him, and scrubbing at his face. There’s bits of sleep clinging to the corners of his eyes, and the hairs of one of his bushy eyebrows are pointing every which way. It’s distracting, the way it muddles with the symmetry. “You were muttering, a bit, in your sleep. A few times, I think.”

“Oh. What… what did I say?”

He isn’t even trying. He speaks the question and then he Knows, and that hollow in the back of his mind feels a little bit bigger.

“Jess Terrell,” Jon says, closing his eyes and sighing. “I was… recounting her _statement_. From the dream.”

“Yeah,” Martin says. He sounds… tired.

“I’m sorry.”

“I… Jon. I really don’t want to think about it, if that’s alright.”

“Alright.”

Jon opens his eyes again, finding Martin looking at him. At his face, not quite his eyes. “If… if you need more space, I can sleep in the other room,” Martin says, looking away and rubbing at the corner of his eye.

Maybe Martin would be more comfortable in the other room, away from Jon reciting the stories of his… his _victims_ in his sleep. He couldn’t blame him for not wanting to be reminded every night that Jon is no better than a monster-- But, no, that’s not what this is about, is it? 

“No,” Jon says, with a swell of stubborness. “I need _you_. And I certainly don’t need you --or either of us-- slipping back into… bad habits. We _both_ isolated ourselves and, well… I don’t want that to happen again.”

Martin frowns, confused. Conflicted. “I-I wasn’t--”

“You were.” Jon reaches out and gently pulls Martin’s hand away from his face. “Don’t let the Lonely have an inch of you.”

He blanches. His jaw clenches, and he nods. “I won’t.”

“And you… you _anchor_ me in my humanity. However much I have left.” His laugh is bitter.

Martin’s expression softens. “You’re still _you_ , Jon.”

“I’m still the Archivist.”

Martin looks like he wants to argue. His brow furrows, he _stares_ at Jon (Jon stares back, unflinching, _daring_ him to say something), and then he sighs and turns his hand in Jon’s grasp to give his fingers a small squeeze. “Well, _speaking_ as the Archivist’s anchor of humanity, I think the Archivist should take the shower first while I start breakfast.”

Jon bites the inside of his mouth to try and keep from laughing. Instead, he reaches out with his free hand and smooths that pesky eyebrow. “Are you implying that I smell?”

He leans into Jon’s touch, his expression softening with affection. “I’m implying that we _both_ smell, and you better not use up all the hot water.”

“Who knows what kind of heater this place has.”

“I just hope it still works.”

“Hm. I’ll do my best to leave you some.”

“You better.”

Their eyes linger on one another, just for a moment, as Jon fumbles with what he’s supposed to do. Clearly he’s supposed to do _something_ before getting up and leaving him. He settles on pulling Martin’s hand to his mouth and kissing his knuckles, hoping he’s doing the right thing. It’s Martin’s answering smile --all warm and tender, and maybe a little embarrassed-- that he knows he did good. Or at least, good enough.

\---

They haven’t touched since then. It’s past lunchtime, Martin is making tea while Jon opens up a packet of biscuits, and it’s as though leaving that bed has broken some kind of spell. Martin hasn’t reached out for him; Jon isn’t sure what is or isn’t appropriate, and whenever an opportunity arises, the moment passes before he can finish trying to decide if he should take it or not.

Martin comes to the approximation of a living room (there’s a lopsided armchair and a squashy, faded sofa flanking a chipped coffee table) with the teapot and two mismatched mugs, salvaged from the recesses of the mostly-empty cupboards. Jon normally would have taken the armchair, but had made a conscious effort to sit on one end of the sofa, so that Martin could sit beside him.

Instead, Martin sets everything down on the table and, after an obvious bit of visual calculus, sits down on the far side of the couch, leaving a bare cushion between them. Jon frowns down at it.

Martin takes a biscuit. “Um. I-Is something wrong?”

There’s no dignified way to say it. So he doesn’t. “No,” he says, pouring himself some tea. 

There’s a pause. “Ooookay then.”

A few minutes pass in silence, with tea and biscuits, and Jon grows more and more agitated the more he tries to figure out _why_ Martin could be acting like this. He can’t stop his mind from straying towards things like regret. That once Jon had left him alone with his thoughts, he’d come to some sort of realization that this --that _Jon_ \-- wasn’t what he wanted.

Well, if that’s the case, then why doesn’t Martin just come out and say it?

He drains his mug and sets it down with a heavy thud, loud enough to startle Martin into looking over at him.

“Look,” Martin says, setting his mug down much more gently. He looks uncomfortable. “Something is going on--”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Jon blurts out, hot stings of anger and embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. “ **Why are you avoiding me?** ”

“Because I heard you’re not really comfortable with, _you know_ , intimate stuff, and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable after this morning because I’m terrified of pushing you away now that we’re finally… _whatever this is_. So I was trying to wait and let you take the lead,” Martin says, his face gone completely earnest and open.

Jon realizes it the same second that he sees Martin’s expression slam shut. “Oh no.”

“ _Jon_!”

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!” he says, all that anger washed away and replaced with shame. “I just… I got frustrated and it slipped out, I swear it wasn’t on purpose.”

Martin shakes his head, his cheeks red with embarrassment, but at the same time looking a little… relieved. He sighs as he turns to sit completely facing Jon. “Wh-why are you…? Frustrated?”

“I thought, maybe, you’d changed your mind,” he admits, quietly. He owes Martin the truth, especially after wrenching it unwillingly out of him.

“ _What_? No! No, Jon--”

“I know--”

“Jon--”

“I just got that thought in my head and it wouldn’t go away.”

“I’m sorry, I just-- I just didn’t want to push you,” Martin says, his brow furrowed in dismay. “What do you-- you need? Or want? What can I do?”

Jon’s voice is small when he admits, “Sit next to me.”

Martin scoots closer without question, which helps to alleviate the uncomfortable jumble of confused emotions playing games with his insides. Then he offers Jon his hand, and the moment their fingers lace together, this tightness in his chest he hadn’t noticed loosens.

“I like this,” Jon says, as Martin rests their clasped hands in his lap. He scoots a little closer, so their legs are touching.

“Alright.” There’s a smile in Martin’s voice. On his lips. “What else?”

“I…” Suddenly Jon feels foolish. “You don’t need to coddle me, I’m just not good at _initiating_.”

“Making sure you’re okay isn’t coddling you. I don’t want to cross over a line, even on accident.” He squeezes Jon’s hand.

“Martin, I don’t even know where the lines _are_. Who… where did you hear…?”

“The girls, ah, talk. Talked. You know, last year. I guess Georgie said something to Melanie-- I hadn’t even realized that your Georgie and Melanie’s Georgie were the same person until…” He trails off as he sees the dour look on Jon’s face. “There wasn’t anything specific. It was an offhand comment, a joke I think, and I… guessed. That’s all.”

“Ah. Well. Then I suppose the most obvious bit is the sex thing,” Jon says, his voice flat. “That was, after all, a sticking point. Not that I hold it against her, I mean, she’s entitled to whoever would be more _inclined_ to…” He sighs. “I _don’t_. I don’t want to. That’s a line, but even then I know there’s… grey areas. I don’t know where all the lines are.”

“Okay,” Martin says, and somehow he really does make it sound like it is. Okay. “That doesn’t bother me, you know. I want to make that totally clear.”

Jon makes a humorless sound. “I have half a mind to try and argue with you about that… But I _really_ don’t want to.”

“Good. Because if the whole _avatar_ thing isn’t going to scare me off, then this isn’t either.”

“Hm.”

Martin squeezes Jon’s hand. Jon squeezes back, his expression softening again. Martin brings that out in him. Lets him be soft when so many things just want to make him hard and shatter him into pieces.

“Then, let's start small, I guess,” Martin says. He clears his throat. “The, um, I mean… Last night, and this morning. Did anything… bother you?”

“No. I… I mean, I _suppose_ , but nothing that was a hard limit. It was a, ah, threshold? Of contact. That’s all. And you respected that.” Jon doesn’t enjoy this. Talking about these things. But he knows its important.

“I don’t think I did a very good job. I took it too personally. I’m sure the Lonely didn’t help, but I’m the one who let it in.”

“It’s not personal. It’s not you,” Jon says, soft and reassuring. 

“Okay,” Martin says. He leans a little closer, pressing his shoulder against his. “I believe you.”

“Good, because I was… _happy_. With how everything went.” Jon swallows. “Especially last night.”

“Good. I’m-- _oh!_ Y-you mean. Oh.” Martin’s cheeks are pink.

They’re already touching, from knee to shoulder, their hands clasped. It’s almost nothing, now, for Jon to lean over and kiss him, gently, on the lips. Martin makes a soft, startled noise, but soon leans into it, his free hand searching upwards, brushing Jon’s knee, his chest, before slowly (with enough time to let him move away, if he wanted) cupping the side of his jaw.

When Jon finally pulls away, a number of kisses later, Martin is in a pleased daze. His thumb brushes along Jon’s cheekbone and he’s smiling.

“I like this, too,” Jon murmurs.

He just can’t bring himself to say that it’s not just the kisses that he likes, but the way that they make Martin melt with happiness. That they --that _he_ , despite everything-- can bring back his smile.


	3. October 1, 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and added chapter titles to the first two chapters.

It’s a few days later when Martin has his first, _truly_ terrible nightmare. Jon’s dreams are constant, the same cycle over and over again, and in a way they’ve become horribly familiar. He doesn’t wake up screaming.

Martin screams.

It yanks Jon out of his ceaseless observations, fully alert and heart pounding, to see Martin sitting bent double, over his knees, fists balled in the blankets and back heaving. In the gaps between breaths, Jon can make out half-formed sobs.

Jon can’t help it. He steals a glance towards the still-motionless tape recorder before sitting up and resting his hand on his shoulder. “Martin--”

Martin leans heavily towards him, one hand reaching around and pulling him closer as his head drops to Jon’s shoulder. It doesn’t take a genius to know what he’s meant to do. He hugs him, and drags his fingers through sweat-drenched hair. Martin is trembling.

Jon feels a familiar itch in the back of his mind, but he ignores it. The sheer agony in Martin’s voice is holding every bit of his attention. "No. No, no, _no_."

“You’re safe, Martin. Whatever it was, it wasn’t real,” he says, as calm as he can manage. “Just a dream.”

That itch, that had begun to travel into the back of his throat, to his teeth, vanishes. Martin tenses as a gut-wrenching sob forces its way out of him. “A dream,” he chokes out, and then begins to cry. “ _Jon_.”

“I-- I’m here. We’re both still here,” Jon says, and holds him tight.

He doesn’t need Martin to tell him about his nightmare. He’s certain he has a good enough idea of the many things it could have been. So when Martin doesn’t volunteer any details, Jon doesn’t press. Instead, he fills the quiet of their bedroom with little nonsense things: his favorite books, dumb stories from university. How, maybe, one day, he’d like to get a cat.

“I hope you’re not allergic,” Jon says, as Martin lays with his head on his chest.

“I’m not,” Martin says. He sounds… better. Not _great_ , but. Better.

“Good,” Jon says, then moves on to another topic before Martin can think to ask him why.

\---

Martin only seems half-there for most of the morning. 

Jon is able to make him a simple breakfast before he even notices, and sits him down with a plate and some tea. The distracted, weary smile Martin gives him is enough to bestow the confidence to lean in and kiss his forehead before sitting down, and Jon is rewarded with a hand-squeeze across the corner of the table. A silent ‘thank you’.

Caring for others isn’t exactly among Jon’s talents. He doesn’t necessarily think that he’s _bad_ at the social nuances in general, but this… This _responsibility_. It’s very new. Other people were there to do the clean up, ‘other people’ usually being Martin. Jon used to think that it was… not a _flaw_ , perhaps but… No, there’s no sense in sugar-coating it, he was not at all fond of Martin’s doting at first. Not until, well, he really needed it and it wasn’t there.

So Jon does the only thing he can think of: he emulates Martin.

He hovers nearby, looking up from a ratty old paperback he’s rereading at a leisurely pace every few minutes to see Martin looking out the window, or staring down at a blank page in the notebook he keeps in his pocket, the end of his disposable pen wedged between his teeth. He never catches him actually write anything down. Just staring, thinking, before he looks out the window again.

Jon nudges his leg with his foot, partially reclined across two cushions of the sofa. “Do you want some tea?” he asks, and can almost feel his past self roll his eyes and wave Martin out of his office. If he could go back and shake himself, he would.

There’s a slight delay before Martin turns away from the window, lost in thought. He raises his hand, as if to touch Jon’s foot, but lowers it again. But he gives Jon a half-smile, so he puts any concern out of his mind. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

Jon smiles back, setting his book down, open and pages down, on the armrest. “Then leave it to me. I’ll be right back.”

Martin’s attention is already back on the window when Jon leaves the room.

When he comes back a few minutes later with the teapot and two mugs, he’s alone.

At first it doesn’t strike him as odd. There’s his book on the sofa, waiting for his return. He sets down the teapot, but then the two cups give him pause. Why does he have two? And then there’s that strange feeling in the back of his skull, his throat, his teeth. Like needles on a chalkboard.

A blank notebook rests on the coffee table beside a cheap pen pocked with teeth marks. Jon hasn’t done that since he was a child, channeling an impatient energy through his mouth-- sometimes he wondered if that had led him to smoking. (An old, insidious feeling that will never quite go away, tells him that a smoke sure sounds good right about now.) So _who_ could have left--?

It feels like a dentist’s drill. It clashes against the hunger in the back of his mind and suddenly things come back into sharp focus.

The Lonely.

 _Martin_.

He bolts back up to his feet. “Martin?” he calls out to the cottage, quick to check the entire room again. Nothing. “ _Martin_!”

No answer.

The tape recorder is sitting, silent and unmistakably off, on the armchair where he left it. It does little to comfort him, but it’s… something.

Jon hurries to the window that Martin had been staring at, and is met with the same picturesque Scottish fields that have always been there. He calls Martin’s name again, shoving open the front door and stepping outside for a better look. There’s no sign of him.

He slams the door shut and begins to check each room, just to be sure. By the time he gets back to the living room, his heart is pounding and the fear feels like a vice around his chest. The feeling --the Lonely-- is strongest here.

“Martin…” Jon murmurs, his eyes falling on the two empty mugs. The notebook and pen.

He circles the couch, looking at the spot where he’d left Martin. With a trembling breath, bracing himself, he lowers himself down to rest on the edge of the coffee table, and reaches out. His hand stops as it bumps into the yielding firmness of a trouser leg. A knee. A strangled, _relieved_ sob escapes Jon’s throat, and he fumbles upwards, up Martin’s stomach, his shoulder, until finally he’s cupping his face in his hands. He can’t see them, but Jon can feel tears on Martin’s cheeks.

“Found you,” Jon whispers thickly. “Come on. Come back.”

That awful feeling of the Lonely peaks, Jon grits his teeth, and then it breaks. It’s gone, and in its place is Martin.

Their eyes meet, just for a moment, before Martin hangs his head in shame. “I-I’m sorry. Jon, I didn’t mean to…”

“Why didn’t you answer me?” Jon asks, the adrenaline draining from him, leaving him trembling.

“I couldn’t. I tried, but… I couldn’t.”

“You were there the whole time? Not… You weren’t gone?”

“I was here.”

Jon can’t even think. He lets go of Martin’s face to pull him into an embrace, a wet, tired laugh of relief leaving him in a rush. “That’s okay.”

“H-how is this okay?” Martin asks, bewildered, sounding more like himself as, after a small, disoriented delay, he brings his arms around Jon.

“Now I know. We can work with this.” Jon squeezes him tighter, for emphasis. “I don’t think we can get rid of it… But we can work with this.”

“Together,” he says weakly.

“Together,” Jon agrees. “You’re stuck with me now. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Martin laughs, then sobs, and the tea is ice cold by the time they’re in a state to remember that it’s even there.


	4. October 3, 2018

"I should start dinner," Martin says with a sigh (not an annoyed sigh, but a sort of contented, comfortable sigh of a man preparing to do something he enjoys, but pretends he doesn't). He sits up from his lying position, the absence of his head in Jon's lap immediately noticeable as he sets his notebook on the table and stretches his arms over his head. "Any preference?"

Jon discards his book over the arm of the sofa, resting his hand on his leg, on the spot Martin had been using as a pillow. Warm to the touch, where his trouser leg had been sandwiched between them. "You shouldn't cook tonight," Jon says, pressing forward past the amused look on Martin's face. Clearly he is expecting Jon to try and volunteer. "We should go to the pub."

That amusement gives way to alarm. "The pub? You've barely left the cottage since we got here, what's brought this on?"

"I thought it might be a good idea for you to be around more people. It's sort of--" _lonely_ "--quiet up here all the time. And we could both use a drink, honestly."

Martin frowns. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"I'm sure you'll be fine--"

"I'm not worried about _me_ , Jon."

"... What?" he asks, baffled.

"You… you haven't been _eating_ and I'm just…" Martin looks embarrassed. Ashamed, even, of questioning him. Doubting him.

"Oh." Jon can't blame him. With just that tiny reminder of its existence, the ever-present gnaw of hunger in the back of his mind spikes in intensity. But that's not new. He's not starving. (Not yet.) He gives Martin a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine. I'm still doing okay."

"Are you sure?" he asks, still looking uncertain, but like he _wants_ to believe him.

"Positive." An idea takes him, and Jon's smile widens. "It could be a date."

"Oh!" Martin's expression brightens immediately. "R-really? I mean, that _does_ sound nice."

“Then it’s settled.”

“Are you sure we can afford it?” Martin is already standing, going to fetch his jacket. His question sounds more like token concern, his heart clearly set on Jon’s suggestion. Their _date_. “We only have so much cash.”

“It’s fine,” Jon insists. “After having to abandon everything the first time and lay low… It’s habit to carry around cash.”

Basira had told them not to use their credit cards; it was all very Hollywood, but they’d listened. It seemed a bit pointless, especially if Elias wanted to find them, but there were more forces at work than just The Beholding. Better safe than found by two Hunters with a grudge.

“Ah. R-right, of course,” Martin says, as though he’d rather not think about it.

Jon follows after him, picking up his own jacket before putting a hand on Martin’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. Their eyes meet, and Jon smiles. “No worries tonight. Just some pub food and some drinks, alright?”

Martin exhales, forces his shoulders to relax. Then he nods and mirrors Jon’s smile. “Alright.”

\---

The village is small and quaint at first glance, the sort of place you’d see on a postcard. Not the kind of place that Jon could picture Daisy choosing for a safe house where she may-or-may-not have killed people before, but perhaps that was the point. Tucked away in the Scottish countryside, the rest of the world --and their problems-- seem so far away.

It’s easy, then, to slip into this little fantasy. To believe that he and Martin are just two people, perhaps on holiday, just hoping to enjoy dinner at a local pub. Normal people. A normal _couple_. Jon squeezes Martin’s hand and Martin squeezes back and they share a fragile smile. Best to not test this fantasy too hard, or it might just shatter.

They enter the first pub they find, a well-lit place with a unicorn rampant on its sign.

There’s a few curious glances as they find themselves in the warm, welcoming interior, but they’re gestured to a free table without a fuss. It’s noisy, but not loud, with a small cluster of men gathered around a tv above one end of the bar. On the other end, a few tables have been pushed together for a knitting circle. Probably the usual Wednesday night crowd. 

They pass a menu between the two of them, and put in their order with a waitress before finding themselves with a moment of relative peace and two pints.

“They probably think we’re honeymooning,” Jon says with a chuckle into his glass.

Martin nearly chokes on his beer, going red to the tips of his ears. “W-what? Why?”

“Well we’re clearly not local.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” Jon says, amused.

“Well, I mean, look at us,” Martin says, gesturing between them. “There wasn’t exactly much time to pack our _best_.”

“So I take it you aren’t attracted to the exhausted, half-dead academic look?” He arches a brow over the frame of his glasses.

“Oh, I am,” Martin says, then stutters for a moment as he realises what he said. “Though I could do with you looking a bit _better_ Jon, if we’re being honest! Healthier, I mean.”

“Maybe we’ve just been too busy being overworked academics to take a proper honeymoon. It would explain why we didn’t travel further,” Jon offers with a shrug.

Martin laughs, shaking his head like he doesn’t know what to do with him. That just makes Jon smile, tapping the rim of his glass with a long finger. “So where would you want to go, then? On a ‘proper’ honeymoon?” Martin asks.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“You’re the one that’s had a chance to travel.”

“It wasn’t exactly a _pleasurable_ experience.”

“So no preference then?”

Jon considers this for a moment. “Well you raise an interesting point. _I’ve_ gotten to travel. You haven’t. Where would _you_ want to go?”

Jon doesn’t get to find out, because the waitress returns with their food, and the conversation is forgotten.

By the end of it, Martin looks content and happy, more like the Martin of his memory. No, _happier_. Content in a way that Jon isn’t sure he’s really seen on him before. 

He just wishes that he could say the same about himself. The food was good but Jon is still _hungry_. And somewhere, in this village-- _no_. Somewhere in this _pub_ , he can sense that someone has a statement for him. He’s been trying to ignore it, to put it from his mind, but the lure is nearly irresistible. 

And, finally, he gives in and _looks_.

The bartender. It would be easy to approach the bar, strike up a conversation. The question would slip in almost naturally, and then it would come pouring out of him. There was even a chance that Martin wouldn't notice, at least not until it was too late.

“I’m going to get us some more drinks,” Jon says, without even looking at Martin when he pushes up from the table.

He thinks he hears Martin say something, but it doesn’t register. He can only assume it’s some sort of acknowledgement.

Jon leans against the bar, catching the bartender’s eye. He nods, finishes pouring a drink, and comes over to him. He’s an older man, bearded, with a lined face. He has a story; Jon can practically taste it, the fear he has buried deep inside, hidden away beneath complacent lies to turn whatever he’d experienced into something that he could explain away. Try to forget. But it’s there, shiny and ripe, _waiting_ to be plucked.

“Two pints,” Jon says, holding up as many fingers. “And, while you’re at it, **tell me** \--”

“Jon!”

It’s Martin, his grip tight on his arm, yanking him bodily away from the bar to turn and face him. His face is a battleground of fear and anger.

“ _Stop_ ,” Martin says, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

For an instant, Jon feels anger swell up inside of him. That sudden denial, _knowing_ that he could be ridding himself of that gnawing in the back of his head, crying out to be sated. He _needs_ this.

But no. _No._ The shame crashes over him and he turns to look at the man he’d almost made his victim. The face of a man that had barely escaped being added to his small, horrible collection. (Still, some part of him cried out for satisfaction. _Wanted_.)

“Problem?” the bartender asks, looking between Martin and Jon.

“I…” Jon attempts, but he can’t think. All he can feel is that deep shame and the painful grip of Martin’s fingers digging into his arm.

“Alcoholic. Ah, recovering,” Martin says, his voice gone all high the way it does when he’s upset. That’s his fault. Jon’s fault. “Doing a bit of a test, looks like it’s not going well.”

The bartender nods sympathetically, giving Jon a look of understanding and pity. “Good to know. And, well, good luck next time.”

Jon gives a shaky nod as Martin apologizes and thanks him, and lets himself be dragged back to their table. Martin’s expression is thunderous.

Jon looks down at the table. “Well, are you going to threaten to kill me, too?”

“What? _No_. Jon, I--” Martin exhales through his teeth, followed by an anxious laugh. “I couldn’t. _Ever_. I’d…”

Jon risks the glance upwards. Martin looks about as miserable as he feels. Feebly, Jon offers him his hand across the table, and Martin takes it, holding tight. “I’m sorry. You were having a good time.”

When Martin speaks, his voice is quiet. He’s leaning forward, looking him straight in the eye. “I’d let you. If it came to it, I’d let you. I-I can’t watch you _starve_ to death.”

“Maybe you should,” Jon mutters.

Martin’s grip tightens. “You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t know.”

There’s hurt in Martin’s eyes. Sympathy. Longing. “I… I think we both need a break from that whole self-sacrificing thing, don’t you?”

Jon can’t even answer. He just nods.

“Come on, Jon. Let’s go back.”

He’s barely aware of leaving some money on the table, and following Martin out of the pub and out into the night air. It helps to clear his head, the chill that cuts through the comfortable warmth he’d had inside. It brings him back to reality.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says again, when they reach the outskirts of the village.

For a moment Martin doesn’t answer. He just walks, shoulders hunched, his hands shoved in his pockets. Finally, in a weary voice, he asks, "Did you suggest the pub for me, or was it really for yourself?"

It’s a punch to the gut. The worst part is that he isn’t even sure. "I… I meant it for you. But I don't… I can't promise that the _idea_ didn't come from something else.” Jon sighs, the weight of it pressing down on his shoulders. “I can't even trust myself."

"You can trust me."

"I do."

Martin takes a deep breath, then reaches for Jon’s hand. An olive branch. A life preserver. Jon takes it and squeezes. “I’ll call Basira tomorrow. Try to get an update on the Archives, on getting you some statements. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jon breathes.

“Until then, let me look after you.”

“Okay.”

There’s a moment, when the only sound is the sound of their footsteps on the pocked road.

“I love you, Jon,” Martin says. “You don’t need to say anything, but I wanted you to hear it. That hasn’t changed.”

He wants to say it. He wants to speak into reality the thing that he’s known for a while now, but hasn’t known how to express. But he doesn’t want _this_ to be the moment. He doesn’t want to say it out of fear, or desperation, or guilt. Those aren’t the feelings he wants linked to the first time that he tells Martin that he loves him.

“Thank you,” he says instead, tucking himself in close to Martin’s side. “For everything, Martin.”

Martin puts his arm around him, holding him the entire way back to the cottage, and long after that.


End file.
